CHAPTER 14
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"I've reported the woman you killed as dead."
Voldemort looked up from his book and scrutinised the boy. He was such a bleeding heart.
"Whatever for?"
Harry glared at him.
"Because she had a family. A mother, a nephew. They deserve to know."
"And just how did you explain your knowledge of her condition?"
The boy looked away.
"People believe me. I just told them that I found some of her remains and did the charms to identify her. No one ever questions me."
Voldemort's excitement stirred. Potter had such power and he did not even desire it. The boy could do anything at the Ministry and receive unconditional support.
So shall I soon be able to. Potter will prove very useful.
"If only they knew what you have done, Harry Potter," Voldemort drawled and caught the way the boy's shoulders dropped.
These words relaxed him. The boy was an enthralling creature.
"You are responsible for her death and that of her sister," he continued, drinking in every involuntary twitch of the boy's muscles.
He watched those eyes close, Potter's breathing deepening.
Ah, so this was what the little hero was after.
"You killed everyone that I struck down getting to you," Voldemort ventured further, intrigued to test how much blame the boy would accept.
He stood unintentionally and walked towards the entrancing figure.
"Friends. Family," he added cruelly. "Innocents. People are counting on you to protect them and yet you bring nothing but death."
Potter made a delicious pained sound, his eyes still squeezed shut.
Voldemort could not resist. He reached out, lightly grasping the boy's throat. Potter swallowed, and he was mesmerised watching that laryngeal prominence bob. He leaned down and inhaled the scent of his skin.
"Are you still feeling guilty about that cunt of a woman, Harry?" he breathed into his ear. "Did your half-sincere confession to the Ministry conflict you more than if you had told the whole truth?"
Harry nodded heavily, a tear falling from his eye.
Oh, he was perfect.
"Would you like me to punish you for your part in her demise? Would that help?"
Harry's throat made a most curious keening sound before it was strangled. The boy's fists clenched.
Voldemort stepped closer, crowding him against the wall.
"Lord Voldemort asked you a question, Potter."
The boy's anxious eyes flew open and sought his. He looked lost and Voldemort felt himself hardening in response. Harry's innocence, despite all he had been through, was sublime.
And then, abruptly, the boy's face changed. His eyes cleared and he shook his head.
"No."
Fury throbbed in his veins.
"No?" he asked, his voice a deadly whisper.
Potter took a staggering breath and placed a hand over Voldemort's at his neck.
"Please let me go."
That was not something he was capable of doing. He had no intention of letting him go. Instead, he tightened his grip, bearing down on the boy.
"We can't do this," Potter rasped, struggling to break free. "You can't touch me like this anymore. We have to go back to being enemies."
Back to? So the boy no longer considered them that. Then why was he saying no?
"Is that what you want?" he asked, knowing it was not.
Yet he would not force him if the boy was unsure.
Harry closed his eyes, his expression pained. He stayed silent for long moments as Voldemort rapaciously studied his face.
"It's what I have to do," he insisted, sounding like the words were his own unsuccessful mantra.
"I do not wish to kill you, Harry," Voldemort confessed, allowing some of his sincerity to colour his words. "We are not the same as we were. We cannot return to being enemies."
The boy's eyes flew wide, perhaps looking more tortured. He stared openly at Voldemort and then finally shook his head.
"No. You... This isn't what you want." Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "And we shouldn't complicate our roles anyways. I have to find your last Horcrux and you have to..."
The boy glanced up at him, reluctantly curious.
"Reclaim my magic," Voldemort stated.
Harry nodded.
"Yeah. And I can't let you do that."
Let me? Oh, Harry.
"I will get my magic back, Harry Potter. I am immortal. I have the time to be patient."
He saw the boy's face harden and the endearing challenge the boy thought he would bring to that certainty, made him smile.
"As for your mission," he continued lightly, "it is futile. Without my aid, you will never find it."
Harry sighed.
"So it is a Horcrux," the boy murmured in confirmation to himself. He looked up at Voldemort. "You know I'll find it eventually."
Voldemort smirked.
"You will not."
Harry scoffed.
"So what, then? You want my assistance with your ritual and I want your Horcrux. We both won't help each other, so are we at a stalemate?"
Voldemort released Potter and stepped back.
"Hardly. I need a servant to give me their flesh. It need not be you."
"There's no one else left."
"Again, I am immortal. Eventually you will die and I will convince others to aid me easily enough."
The thought of the boy dead was not a pleasant one. Potter had been his focus for so long that it would be unnatural without him.
"You'll be in Azkaban," the boy declared with amusing certainty. "I'll take you there eventually."
"So then it will be a guard or another inmate. As long as I have someone to speak to, I will acquire another servant."
"You never got me," Potter had the audacity to proclaim.
Voldemort simply stared at the boy with a raised eyebrow until he flushed.
"That's not what I meant. I'm saying that I'm not your servant."
A vivid memory of Potter on his knees contradicted this avowal.
"The terms servant and submissive are almost interchangeable, Harry," Voldemort drawled, reaching out to touch the boy again, but his hand was slapped away.
"I am not your submissive!" Potter suddenly shouted. "You don't want me! You— you're selling your body to me as a way to get me to do shit for you! That's sick. I don't want that. I don't need you to pretend to fancy me to earn my favour or my help or whatever it is that you're after."
Potter pushed off from the wall and stared at him with defiance.
"So yeah— this." The boy gestured between them with his fingers. "This is not happening anymore."
And before Voldemort could offer a rebuttal, Potter had stormed from the drawing room.
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Harry wasn't mourning, exactly.
It wasn't like that. Yeah, fine, he felt bereft and disappointed, but it wasn't like whatever they had been doing was feasible.
He was the Dark Lord Voldemort.
Harry had to kill him eventually. That was his purpose. Not the man himself.
So yeah. He was sad, but he just needed a distraction. Or a reminder that that kind of connection wasn't for him anyways. He had committed his life to serving the wizarding world and that was what he would concentrate on from now on.
He plunked his teacup down onto his desk decisively and stood.
No more brooding. Time to move on.
He strode from his office and went to the Active Cases board in the main room.
This looks much different now than it did when I first started ten years ago.
Now, it was mostly thefts, some assaults. Minor things.
"Mr Potter, I was wondering if you could help me with something?"
That's what I'm here for.
"What can I do for you?" Harry asked his colleague, and he meant it.
This was his purpose.
"I just had a case come in about a woman Polyjuicing herself into her ex-husband's new wife."
Greta, the other Auror, stopped to smirk at him. Harry laughed.
"I'm assuming she was found out?"
"Yup, the Polyjuice wore off after an hour as it's intended— while they were still going at it."
Harry raised his eyebrows and nodded.
"That's impressive stamina."
Greta shot him a look.
"If the rumours are true, Mr Potter, then you have nothing to worry about."
Harry felt a swoop of shame in his stomach. Your subordinates think you're a whore. Everyone knows you will fuck anything that moves. Disgusting, desperate slag.
"Right," Harry said awkwardly. "Well, what can I help you with?"
Greta began to detail the complexities of the crime, asking about precedence with calling it rape, and Harry was listening, he really was. But the mention of rape and swapping bodies and sex got him thinking.
Polyjuice.
The man a few days ago had been so unsatisfying. But maybe if he could hire an actual sex worker who probably got asked this kind of thing all the time— then he could fuck the actual Dark Lord.
Well. Not the actual Dark Lord, but as close to him as he could get without taking advantage of the man.
His trousers got tight the longer he thought about it. He had some Polyjuice in his potions stash at home. This would be easy.
One last time, with the man's real body, and he would get it out of his system.
"What do you think, Mr Potter?" Greta asked, and Harry startled, supremely thankful for his loose robes.
Focus now. Do your job and then tomorrow, you can play.
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The negotiations had finished. Harry was using Polyjuice too, because sex workers did not allow Obliviation afterwards.
And I don't want to burn any bridges in case I need to come back again.
He looked like a random middle-aged Muggle and he had requested a male companion for the evening that way the poor person wouldn't have to shift their genitals.
When he'd explained what he wanted, the man hadn't even flinched. He hadn't asked how Harry had acquired the necessary DNA to successfully turn into Lord Voldemort either.
Sex workers in the magical world must see some weird shit. If this didn't shock them, what would?
"Please follow me, Mr Daniels," the man said, and then led him down a corridor in the large manor house they were in.
He stopped outside of one of the doors and opened it for Harry.
"You can wait inside. I'll take the potion and then enter when you're ready."
Harry nodded, too excited to even speak. He walked into the room, shut the door, and then leaned against it, his heart pounding in anticipation.
Fuck.
He was about to see the Dark Lord naked. He could touch him and snog him and there wouldn't be any prices. No obligations. No violent history between them.
It would just be pleasure.
Oh Merlin, yes, this is exactly what I need.
Harry thought about stripping off, but he wanted to let the Dark Lord do it. Instead, he sat down on the bed and stared impatiently at the door, willing it to open.
Holy shit. Lord Voldemort is about to walk into this room, wanting to fuck me. He's going to—
There was a knock and then that fucking voice asked, "May I come in?"
Harry couldn't speak, so he rushed to the door and pulled it open.
Lord Voldemort was standing there, staring him down with those burning eyes. Adrenaline and overwhelming lust spiked through his body.
"Good evening," the man said, and walked past him into the room.
Harry shut the door and then turned to see Lord Voldemort waiting by the bed.
Jesus fuck.
Those long fingers began to pull off the man's robes and a moan escaped Harry's lips.
Oh gods, he's naked under there, he's— those are his nipples! Holy shit, he's gorgeous. Scrawny and pale, but perfect, and that's—
His cock was beautiful, just as he remembered. It was already erect and jutting forward obscenely; a delicious pink colour, and Harry moved on impulse, falling onto his knees and shuffling forwards.
I've got to get it into my mouth, fuck, I've got to—
"Get on the bed," that voice demanded and Harry looked up.
Oh, bollocks.
He hadn't requested cock sucking and sex workers were notorious for keeping things strictly within the discussed parameters.
He swallowed his disappointment and the excess saliva that had accumulated, then did as he was told.
That's okay. The sex is going to be amazing.
Harry sat himself on the bed and Lord Voldemort followed, covering him with his long body.
Fuck yes, this was better, this was incredible.
Voldemort licked along his throat and Harry moved his head to capture those lips, but the flat face dodged it and Harry almost swore.
Fuck! He'd not even thought to add snogging to their negotiations.
The man above him reached down and grabbed Harry's straining cock, completely distracting him.
"Would you like to fuck me," that high, cold voice asked, and Harry felt himself twitch in the man's grip at that unthinkable question. "Or, would you prefer for me to take you?"
Harry had no idea. He hadn't counted on having to choose. Yes, he'd selected both options in the questionnaire, but he had hoped that it would just be done to him.
He buried his face in that long, cool neck, his mind beginning to fixate on the discrepancies.
Voldemort wouldn't ask, he wouldn't be so gentle—
"Just— fuck me, I guess."
Voldemort began to undress him and Harry tried not to look into the man's face. The crimson eyes were disconcertingly passive. Alert, but not engaged.
The man began to prepare him and Harry didn't know if that would be authentic or not.
He'd never gotten to have sex with the real Lord Voldemort.
A sudden unease sliced through him. He was going to do this for the first time, the only time, with a fake. He was touching the man intimately, yet it wasn't really him.
Panic began to rattle his nerves. He was going to allow himself to be penetrated again for a man that hadn't earned his trust. A stranger wearing the face of someone he'd come to care for.
Care for?
A hard cock pushed against his entrance and Harry tensed, instantly changing his mind.
"Wait!" he shouted, pushing back against that towering body, which immediately receded.
Harry rolled off the bed, panting, but infinitely relieved that he hadn't gone through with this.
"I'm sorry to break character," that familiar voice said gently, "but would you like to use your safe word?"
Harry nodded, his eyes clenched shut.
"Yeah," he rasped. "Quidditch. I'm done."
When he opened his eyes, the man's expression was understanding. Harry looked away, refusing the take in any more of that body unconsensually.
"Can I offer you anything else, or would you just like to end this session?"
"Sorry, just end it, I think. Thank you."
The man quietly exited the room and Harry waited for the count of five and then collapsed back onto the bed.
Merlin.
What had he been thinking? This was ludicrous. He didn't just want the man for his body. The appeal wasn't about a collection of compelling parts.
It was Voldemort himself.
The way he made Harry feel. The blissful nothingness he allowed Harry to sink into. The way he challenged him, encouraged him. The danger he presented.
That couldn't be replicated or acted out.
He wanted Lord Voldemort.
And if he couldn't have him, then that would just have to be something else to numb with overwork.
He sat up slowly, defeated, and began to dress.
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It was late when Harry finally arrived home.
He had sought out a gay pub after leaving the brothel, wanting a drama-free handjob before bed, but strangely he had turned down all three of the men that had offered.
Maybe I should become celibate. Give myself a chance to fast from the toxin that is Lord Voldemort.
Harry snorted.
Sweat him out.
He laid his head on the back of the sofa in front of the crackling fire in the drawing room. The lights were off, the house was silent. He could just sit with himself and—
"A bottle of Polyjuice is missing," Lord Voldemort abruptly said from directly beside him.
Harry jolted, springing up off the furniture in terror and backing away.
Oh, fuck.
He stared at the man, his pulse thundering in his skull. Voldemort looked even more menacing in the dark, with the flickering orange light from the fire casting sinister shadows on his face.
"Combined with your trespass into my chamber this morning while I was feigning sleep," Voldemort continued, and Harry could have cursed himself for assuming his earlier entry had been subtle, "I have one very curious conclusion, Harry Potter."
The Dark Lord was studying him, his gaze sweeping Harry's body.
"Do you know what it is?"
Harry shook his head.
Let it be way off. Let him think that I sold it, or used it to wank, or—
"You stole my body again today."
Harry held his breath.
Yup. But what did I do with it?
"Was it Auror business once more?" Voldemort inquired, taking a step towards him.
Harry tried to keep his face neutral, but images of his evening, of Lord Voldemort stripping off before him, of that gorgeous cock jutting out enticingly—
"Or something else?" Voldemort went on, still coming closer, and Harry bit his cheek. "Something that would account for your heated blush and late return home?"
Harry swallowed around the tightness in his throat.
"It was work," he replied, trying to sound casual. "I'm sorry, I should have asked—"
"Lies."
Harry's fucked up body responded to that by trembling with arousal.
Sweet Merlin, he will kill me if he finds out what I've done.
"I wonder," Voldemort continued, reaching him at last, "if it was you who donned my skin."
The Dark Lord's fingers moved to Harry's mouth and gently pressed against his lips, which opened immediately to let him in.
"Or, did you dare to give it to another? Ah," Voldemort sighed, and Harry watched that gaze burn with smouldering fury. "Your body betrays you, Harry Potter."
He wanted to deny it, but the fingers clogging his mouth did not recede. They went deeper.
"You let someone else take my form." The danger in those words made him want to flee, but also to drop to his knees. "Why. What—"
Understanding widened the man's blazing eyes. His long digits plunged into the back of Harry's throat, making him gag.
"Harry Potter," he whispered, and it was like a chiding exhale while Harry struggled. "You hypocritical boy."
How the fuck was the man reading so much from him? Harry was an Auror. He was trained to withstand questions without cracking, and yet the sodding Dark Lord was unravelling him effortlessly.
Voldemort gradually pulled his fingers out and wiped them slowly, messily, on Harry's face.
"You gave to another my body so that you could indulge without consequences. How foolish of you to believe that Lord Voldemort would not find out."
The man's anger had reached a pinnacle. Harry knew he should be afraid, and he was, but he was also caught, compelled by the man's power even without his magic.
"Was it satisfying?" the Dark Lord whispered perilously, no longer touching Harry. "Did your betrayal bring you pleasure?"
"No," Harry assured him desperately.
"Of course not, boy. Counterfeit bodies will not slake your lust like the original would. That was your mistake."
Voldemort backed up a few paces and then leaned against the wall, studying him.
"You gave yourself to the wrong person, Harry Potter."
I know.
But this wasn't fair. It wasn't Harry's fault that they had stopped. It was Voldemort's. He was the one who was just pretending.
"This is on you," Harry retorted, pointing at the man."You're the one that wanted to make this into a transaction."
Voldemort's eyes flashed as he shook his head, pushing off from the wall.
"No," he hissed. "Do not change the subject. You fucked another man and pretended he was me."
"Well, you don't want it! I might as well give it to someone else."
Voldemort growled viciously.
"Someone else who looked like me." The man stalked forwards like a predator until he was inches away once again. "You want me."
They stared at each other, both shaking with emotion. Voldemort bore down on him.
"You can bed a hundred men with my face, boy, but it will never bring you what you seek."
"And what do I seek?" Harry challenged, intending to sound scathing, but it came out brittle.
The man reached out and grabbed ahold of his hair, yanking it and tilting Harry's head back so that he was looking up helplessly at that livid, flat face.
"Lord Voldemort," the Dark Lord replied. "Above you. Where you and I both know he belongs."
"You don't want that," Harry whispered, refusing to submit to this and then be made a fool of again. "You're just using me."
Voldemort traced Harry's cheek lightly.
"You are mine to use."
Harry closed his eyes.
No.
He would accept people using his body and his fame and whatever else they needed, but not his emotions. Not this.
Reaching up, he placed his hand on Voldemort's wrist where he was gripping Harry's hair. Looking up into those simmering eyes, he spoke softly.
"Let me go. Please. We can't do this."
"You need me, Harry," Voldemort insisted quietly, but his wrath seemed to have dissipated.
Those inhuman eyes held him for long moments. Eventually, Voldemort unlocked his grip and let Harry twist free.
Harry took a deep breath, his chest tight.
He won't even deny that it was a ruse. He doesn't want you.
"I'm sorry about... the Polyjuice," Harry muttered, needing to take the blame on that.
He wasn't innocent here. And he felt bad for using the man's body that way.
Sighing, he readied himself to go. When he looked up, Lord Voldemort was studying him.
"You're right, it was rubbish," Harry confessed softly, though it hurt to say it with those intense eyes piercing him. "I won't do it again. I promise."
Turning away, he made to walk out the door, but Voldemort stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Come to me, next time."
Harry shook his head.
"You know I can't."
They stared at each other, the air charged with longing.
Tell me you want me, say that it's not just an act.
But Voldemort remained silent. And so there was nothing more to do.
"Goodnight," Harry offered miserably.
He left, and as he walked down the corridor to his room, he heard the Dark Lord's resigned voice reply.
"Goodnight, Harry."